A Bit Not Good
by Queerasil
Summary: John is a soldier taken hostage by terrorists. Sherlock has to negotiate his release. (Multi-chaptered Military meeting AU.)
1. Chapter 1

*Note: Written for the prompt 'Military AU'.

The first hour is all darkness and hushed whispers in a strange language John - really should know - but doesn't know.

He hears one word in English the entire hour, and it scares him more than anything else in his entire life: **Hostage**.

John runs over the safety procedures over and over again in his head, trying to remember what he did and didn't do before he was taken. '_Did I send out a signal_?' he asks himself, (because he certainly can't ask his kidnappers). '_No, of course you didn't send out a bloody signal; you were unconsciou_s.'

John smells blood. He feels a slight twinge in his left shoulder - an itch, almost - but far too painful. It feels as though something is scratching a hole through his skin, and he can barely hold back a scream as the pain grows sharper, until he blacks out.

When John comes to, his shoulder burns, his mind aches, his stomach is doing flips, and his head spins. Captain John Watson is not okay.

He barely has time to react when a strong hand grabs him by the hair and yanks him up to stand, and starts dragging him along to god knows where. As the two men pull him along, he feels the blood rush out of his head, and reality capsize as he falls to the ground.

"Blood loss... Shit..." He murmurs to himself, because he's damn sure his captors aren't listening. Whatever's hurting his shoulder is causing him to lose blood, which will - eventually - cause him to die. Now, his captors might not care about that, but he sure as hell does.

He tries to sound as commanding as possible. But it's hard to be intimidating when you're blindfolded, bleeding, and being shoved by a strong, strange man in a place you've never been. "Listen -" His voice cracks, and he wonders how long he's gone without a drink for. He coughs, and he feels the thick, salty, metallic taste of blood on his tongue. "Shit... I'm a doctor, please, let me -"

The same rough hand from earlier shoves John down onto the cold ground, and he feels the unfamiliar crack as his finger breaks against the hard floor. He stifles a moan, and the next second, his blindfold is ripped off and he's bombarded by blinding light.

He squints through the tears and the searing pain, and as his eyes adjust to the light, a grotesque view comes into focus.

A camera. Three men. Seven guns. John could take them on if he wasn't too busy bleeding to death.

John groans as he looks at his shoulder, which has a very large, very inconvenient hole in it.

The man with the rough hands prods John roughly in the back, and yells something John vaguely understands as, "Name!"

John grunts, lets out a deep breath, and restrains the urge to kill everyone in the room as he stares at the camera. "Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

There's some quick speaking in Farsi, and the a painful, unwanted silence.

A voice (cool, British, in control, and deep enough to strike oil), begins speaking from seemingly nowhere. "Hello, John. How are you?"

"How do you bloody think?" John spits out, unsure of where the strange voice is coming from.

"Terrible, obviously." The voice sounds almost bored, and John wishes they were speaking face to face, so he could see the dull expression that was no doubt on the owner's face. "We're short on time, so I'll make this quick. What I need to know is simple: Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinks, stunned. "What?"

"Are you in Afghanistan or Iraq?" The voice asks, calmly. His captors begins to shout again in Farsi, but John doesn't care. John doesn't even care when someone grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him out of the room into a small cell with no explanation.

This is not good. This is very, very, very, very not good.


	2. Chapter 2

"Why did you say that, Sherlock? You said you wouldn't ask any questions."

"I was curious, Mycroft. There's no crime in that."

"You could get him killed."

"Look, Brother Dear, you brought me in for my expertise, so let me talk. Plus, how do you expect to get any information out of he doesn't talk?"

"We don't expect to get information. We expect to get Doctor Watson back."

"He's one man. Hardly worth the trouble you're taking to find him."

"He's one good man, and those are hard to come by."

First, John thinks about how Harry will react. He worries and worries and worries and worries about how his poor sister will survive without him.

It takes John a while to realize that his sister will be too drunk to care.

He sleeps on a makeshift floor cot. A young girl comes in and gives him bread and vodka. He stares at the ceiling and turns a single question over in his mind. The whole experience reminds him of university.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He wonders, turning the question over and over again in his mind, as though it's a rough stone that might be polished and smoothed by the constant motion.

He genuinely doesn't know. The only thing that he does know is that he's Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, he's been shot and is being held hostage, and he's in love with the anonymous, deep voice of a stranger.

Things are very, very not good.

John is a good doctor, but an even better soldier. He likes the duality of his two skills, and recognizes the irony that he can take a life just as well as he can save it.

(To clarify: John is a good doctor when it comes to treating other people. He's absolute rubbish at treating himself. This becomes literally and painfully obvious when he attempts to staunch the bleeding gunshot wound with a big of straw and bread.)


	3. Chapter 3

"We're prepared to make an offer..."

John looks up from the floor, and is immediately blinded by the spotlight again. He realizes he must've zoned out, because he doesn't remember how he ended up out of his cell, or in front of the camera, or anything else relevant, for that matter.

One of his captors - who looks vaguely American - has a basic, working knowledge of English, and is furiously discussing the terms of John's release with the stranger's voice.

John closes his eyes and imagines he's back in his flat at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is making him tea and chattering on about all that's wrong in the world, and John is typing away on his laptop, blissful and happy. Everything is the same as he remembers it being when he left, except one new, strange edition. On the couch (John's couch, the couch that is John's, the couch that John owns), is a tall, thin man, stretched out dramatically with his feet dangling off the end of the couch.

John has never seen him before, but John wishes he could see him again for the rest of his life. The man is striking, in an odd, alienish sort of way. His cheekbones are like shards of glass, and his hair is wild like thunderclouds and black like a starless night's sky.

In an instant, John is shocked back into reality when his face is plunged into frigid bucket of ice water. He feels as his head enters the water, and the rest of his body tries to pull away, but can't because of the rough hands holding him under. John shutters, gasps, and all at once he feels as if he's drowning, being pulled under a riptide by a strong, inescapable current.

"Stop!" John hears the stranger's voice yell, and John feels the hands on his shoulders relent as John pushes himself up out of the water. John gasps and looks straight into the camera, as though pleading with the voice on the other side.

"We will agree to whatever your terms are..." The voice admits, sounding a little defeated. John shudders, as his stomach clenches and he coughs up what little ice water he swallowed.

"Stop hurting him, Moran..." The voice pleads again, and for the first time in this whole ordeal, John feels like someone actually cares about him.

John smiles and chokes out a humble thank you, as the man with the rough hands (who is apparently named 'Moran'), leads him back to his cell.

_"You're getting attached, aren't you?_"

"What? Mycroft, why would you say that?"

"_You practically begged Moran to save him. It was pathetic_."

"Pathetic? What happened to you? Before, you were so keen to ensure Doctor Watson's safety, but now, you seem like you don't care."

_"..."_

"Unless... There's something else going on here."

_"..."_

"God, I can't believe you."

"_It's not what you think, Sherlock_."

"It's exactly what I think, Mycroft. You don't care if John lives; you only care if he lives long enough so that you can track down his location and destroy the terrorist cell."

"_It is a priority, yes. You and I both know the odds of him surviving are -_"

"Don't say it."

"- _Unlikely_."

"What do you expect me to do?"

"_Deal with it. Do your goddamn job._"

"This isn't my job, Mycroft. This is your job."

"_Well... You did always want to be like me, didn't you_?"


	4. Chapter 4

John tries to sleep, but the cold pool of water and straw he calls a bed isn't exactly conductive to relaxation.

'Afghanistan or Iraq?' still turns over and over again in his mind. Thinking about it helps to distract him from other things, like the horrible stench of drying blood, and the searing pain in his shoulder, and the frigid pool of water he's sleeping in.

The worst part (he thinks), is that he doesn't fucking know what's going to happen. John Watson always knows what the future holds. John knew his sister was a lesbian in third grade when she kissed a poster of Cher, and he knew she'd become an alcoholic when she drank her first shot of tequila, and he knew he'd become a doctor one day when his father bought him a toy stethoscope.

What John certainly does not know is where he is, why he's there, how long he's going to be there, if he's going to survive, and who the stranger's voice is.

John is so, so surprised when his cell door opens, and Moran throws a microphone inside.

John scrambles towards the device, and stops it just before it rolls into the puddle of water. He sighs deeply, and tries to clear his rugged voice before speaking. "Hello? Anyone there."

"Yes." The stranger's voice answers, and John breathes a sigh of relief. "How're you doing, John?"

John suppresses a chuckle. "Terrible. Bloody awful." He's smiling. He feels as though he's a deflated balloon that's just been pumped full of helium. "Good to hear your voice."

"Good. That's good... Figure out where you are yet?"

"No..." John looks around his cell, as if there's going to be map hanging on the wall. "I just..." John sighs, and runs his hands wet hands through his hair. He suddenly feels like his skin is burning, and he wonders if he has a fever, or an infection, or something else awful along those lines.

"What can I do to help?" The voice, sounding genuinely concerned, asks.

"Just..." John feels as though an invisible hand is clenching around his throat, and the room seems to expand and contract with his breathing. "I think I'm..." John remembers his childhood, when his mother used to go into hysterics over something, and he would calm her - or try to - while she had a panic attack. "Having..." John gasps as the full weight of the situation crashes onto him like a meteor.

"I understand..." The voice sounds calmer, gentler now. "Just... Calm down."

John can feel his heartbeat echo throughout his entire body like an earthquake. Breathing seems like an dire necessity, and he finds that every quiet breath he attempts turning into a hoarding, gulping gasp, as though he'll never breath again.

"We're going to get you out of there."

"When?" John looks over at his shoulder, which plastered in brown, caked blood.

"Soon."

"How?

"Classified."

John tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a wheeze. "Dead or alive?"

"Safe."

John doesn't believe that for a second. "Safe dead or safe alive?"

The voice tuts, and John breathes a shaky sigh of relief. His body is settling down now, his mind thankful for the distraction. "Keep talking."

"About what?"

"Anything. You."

"What do you want to know about me?"

"You sound interesting."

"So do you. Doesn't mean I want to know your whole life story."

John sighs, and he wishes the handsome voice were a bit better at conversation. "Just say something, anything, that doesn't remind me of where I am."

"Fine." John hears the rustling of fabric and the flutter of paper as the voice pauses. "Serial suicides. Four of 'em, all around London. Each one found alone, in a place they shouldn't have been, and killed by the same poison. How did it happen?"

John thought for a moment. Serial suicides? Cult killings? Something crazy? John winced as he sat up, adjusting his position so he was more alert and focused. "No idea."

"Yup. Neither did half of Scotland Yard. That was, until I showed up..." John listens, fascinated, as the stranger recounts one of the most exciting story John's ever heard. The only thing it's missing is an ending.

"Wait, So how does it end?" John begs, desperate to hear more.

"No idea. I was hoping you could help me with that."

At that moment, the doors to his cell burst open and Moran stalks forward and pulls John off the floor with one arm.

"No!" John cries as he scrambles for the microphone, but it's too late. Moran has kicks it against the wall, and it shatters into a dozen pieces before John's eyes.

John doesn't think he's ever been so angry in his life. In a blind fury, he lunges at Moran, and wraps his arm around his torturer's neck, before pulls his arm back and snapping his neck. John feels the ultimate sensation of triumph before a club comes down across the back of his head.


	5. Chapter 5

More water. More blood. John doesn't care. He feels victory and knows there's someone out there, waiting for him. He replays the conversation with the stranger over and over again in his mind. The words feel like a lifeline, his one tether to the outside world. He desperately tries to untangle the mystery of the serial suicides.

"He killed Moran, Sherlock."

"Did he? Hm. He's solved most of our problem already."

"You don't understand, do you?"

"..."

"We don't need to go find John now; he's taken care of the problem. Without Moran, this entire operation is pointless."

"So, what? Just leave John there!"

"Somethings, Brother Mine, are better left unchanged."

Softer hands hold John underwater this time. John's lost so much blood he doesn't care. All he wants is to hear the stranger's voice and feel complete again.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John still has no idea.

"We have to do something, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, be logical about this. We can't risk everything for one man."

"He's not just 'one man', Mycroft."

"What the hell do you... You've been reading his file, haven't you?"

"So? What if I have."

"Oh, Sherlock... I warned you not to get involved."

"I'm not involved."

"Yes, you are. Look at you. Look at how you care about Doctor Watson."

"..."

"I'll do everything I can do ensure his safety."

"Thank you, Mycroft."


	6. Chapter 6

John is half-asleep (or, at least, pretending to be), when the door to his cell opens and a petite girl about half his age enters with a bandage and some antibiotic cream. It's the same young girl who brought him food earlier, but this time, she has a shiner and a two inch cut on her forehead.

She tries to help with John's wounds, but sadly, there isn't too much you can do for a gunshot wound with band aids and a bit of antibiotic cream. Still, she tries as best she can to be reassuring. "I've seen much worse, but then again, I do postmortems."

Instead, John helps bandage the cut on her forehead, and for the first time in this entire experience, he actually feels useful.

"What's your name?" He asks, while he's trying to distract her from the pain of her bruised eye.

"Molly Hooper... Doctor." She winces as John applies the antibiotic to a gash on her neck, and John notices a slight tremor in his own hand that wasn't there before.

"Sorry." He mumbled, looking down at his now shaking hand. Molly looks at him with a sad smile and takes his hand in hers.

"It's fine. I'm used to it." Molly doesn't meet his eyes as she says so, and John gets the irksome feeling this isn't the first time she's belittled herself for the sake of other people.

John decides he wants to talk about something - anything - else. "Are they still negotiating our release?" (He says 'our' because he hopes that someone, somewhere, is trying to get Molly out too.)

She shakes her head, looking profoundly sad, and John feels his heart fall. He tries to think of something he can say that will help, but all he can come up with is "I'm sorry. I'm sure they're looking for you."

Molly snorts, and for a second John thinks she might cry, but in the next instant she smiles, unable to meet John's eyes. "I've been here three weeks... No one's coming for me. I don't even think they've noticed I'm gone. I don't count. I've never -"

Before she can finish, John pulls her into a tight hug, despite the painful protestations of his shoulder. He runs his fingers (covered in blood) through her hair (also covered in blood).

He recalls the speech Harry gave, half-drunk, at their father's funeral. 'The past has passed, but's not forgotten. The scars still ache, our bones still break, but we are better for it.'

John closes his eyes and thinks of Baker Street, murder, and the man with hair like storm clouds.


End file.
